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[5]

[6]

THE ILLUSTRIOUS DR. MATHÉUS.

[7]

THE ILLUSTRIOUS DR. MATHÉUS.

BY MM. ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN, Authors of “Madame Thérèse,” “The Conscript,” “The Blockade,” “Waterloo,” “The Story of a Peasant,” &c.

LONDON: WARD, LOCK, AND, TYLER, WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW.

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[9]

CHAPTER I.

In the little woodland town of Graufthal, on the borders of the Vosges and of Alsace, there lived one of those respectable rural doctors who still wore perruques, large square-tailed coats, knee-breeches, and silver-buckled shoes.

This worthy man was named Frantz Mathéus. He inherited from his ancestors the oldest house in the place, an orchard, some arable land on the mountain, a few acres of meadow in the valley; and if you add to this modest patrimony eggs, milk, cheese, and, from time to time, a lean fowl, sent to the Doctor by the honest peasants out of the fulness of their gratitude, you will have the whole of Maître Frantz’s income: it sufficed for his maintenance and that of his old servant Martha, as well as his horse Bruno.

Maître Frantz was a curious type of the old doctores medicinæ, theologiæ or philosophiæ of the good German school. His face expressed the gentlest placidity, the most perfect good-nature; his ruling passion was metaphysics. The same pleasure which you, I imagine,[10] might take in reading Candide or The Sentimental Journey, he experienced in meditating the Tractatus Theologico-politicus of Baruch Spinosa, or the Monadologie of Leibnitz. He also made experiments in physics and chemistry for his own amusement.

Having one day put some flour of ergot-rye into a bottle of water, he perceived, at the end of a month or two, that his rye had given birth to a number of little eels, which speedily produced a crowd of others. Mathéus, transported with enthusiasm at this discovery, at once concluded from it that if eels can be made with rye-flour, men may be made with the flour of wheat. But after reflecting more on the subject the learned Doctor thought that this transformation must be effected slowly—progressively; that from rye would come eels—from eels fish of all kinds; from these fishes, reptiles, quadrupeds, birds, and so on, up to man inclusive—the whole by virtue of the law of progress. He called this progression “the ladder of being;” and as he had studied Greek, Latin, and several other languages, he set himself to compose a magnificent work, in sixteen volumes, entitled, Palingenesis-Psychologico-Anthropo-Zoology, explaining spontaneous generation, the transformation of bodies, and the peregrination of souls; citing Brahma, Vishnu,

Siva, Isis and Osiris, Thales of Miletus, Heraclitus, Democritus—in short, all the cosmological philosophers, both ancient and modern.

He sent several copies of this work to the German universities, and what was more astonishing, a good number of philosophers adopted his system; titles were conferred on him of Corresponding Member of the Surgical Institution of Prague, of the Royal Society of[11] Sciences of Gœttingen, and of Veterinary Councillor of the Stud of Wurtzbourg.

Mathéus, encouraged by these tokens of appreciation, resolved to bring out a second edition of his Palingenesis, enriched with notes in Hebrew and Syriac in elucidation of the text.

But his old servant—a woman of great sense—represented to him that this glorious enterprise had already cost him half of all he was worth; and that he would be obliged to sell his horse, his orchard, and his meadows, to print his Syriac notes. She begged him to think a little more of mundane matters, and to moderate his anthropo-zoological ardour.

These judicious considerations greatly vexed Maître Frantz, but he could not help seeing that the good woman was right; he sighed deeply, and kept his aspirations after glory to himself.

Now all this had happened a long time ago. Mathéus had returned to his habitual mode of life; he mounted his horse early in the morning to go and visit his patients; he returned late, harassed with fatigue; in the evening, instead of shutting himself up in his library, he went down into the garden to prune his vine, to clear his trees of caterpillars, and to hoe his lettuces; after supper, Jean-Claude Wachtmann the schoolmaster, Christian the garde champêtre, and a few gossips of the neighbourhood with their spinning-wheels dropped in. They all sat round a table, and chatted about the weather, Mathéus entertaining them with news of his patients; and, at nightfall, he went tranquilly to bed, to recommence on the morrow.

Thus passed the days, months, and years. But this peaceful mode of existence could not console Maître[12] Frantz for having missed his vocation. Often, in his distant rides, alone in the midst of the woods, he reproached himself for his fatal inaction: “Frantz,” he said to himself, “Graufthal is not the place for you! All those whom the Being of beings has made depositaries of the treasures of science belong to humanity. What will you answer to that Great Being when the time for rendering an account of yourself shall have come? Will He not say to you, in a voice of thunder: ‘Frantz Mathéus, I had gifted you with the most magnificent intelligence, I had unveiled to you things divine and human, I had destined you from the beginning of time to spread the lights of sound philosophy; where are your works? In vain for you to try to excuse yourself on the plea of its being necessary for you to attend to the sick; these vulgar duties were not made for you; others would have filled your place. Go, Frantz, go; you were not worthy of the confidence

I placed in you, and I condemn you to redescend the ladder of being!’”

Sometimes even the good soul woke himself in the middle of the night with crying out, “Frantz! Frantz! you are highly culpable!”

His old servant would rush to his bedside in alarm, exclaiming—

“Good heavens! what’s the matter?”

“It is nothing—it is nothing,” Mathéus would answer; “I have had a bad dream—that’s all.”

This moral condition of the illustrious doctor could not endure for ever; the repression of his metaphysical tendencies was too severe.

One evening, as he was returning to the village along the bank of the Zinsel, he met one of those hawkers of[13] bibles and almanacs who make their way even to the tops of the mountains to sell their wares. Maître Frantz had not lost the taste for worm-eaten books; he dismounted, and looked over the hawker’s stock. By the merest chance this one possessed a copy of the Anthropo-Zoology, which he had not been able to dispose of for fifteen years; and, seeing Mathéus regard this work with a thoroughly paternal love, he did not fail to tell him that nothing sold better than that, that everybody wanted to read this book, that no more copies were to be had, and that in consequence of this great demand the work was every day becoming more rare.

Maître Frantz’s heart beat strongly, his hand trembled.

“Oh, Great Demiourgos! Great Demiourgos!” he murmured to himself; “here I recognise thine infinite wisdom. Out of the mouths of the simple thou recallest the sages to their duties!”

Maître Frantz returned to Graufthal in a state of extreme agitation: he went about vaguely; a crowd of incoherent ideas pressed upon his mind. Should he go and live at Gœttingen? Should he go to Prague? Ought he to reprint the Palingenesis with new notes? Or ought he to apostrophise the age on its indifference to the subject of anthropo-zoology?

All this tormented, distressed him; but the means appeared to him too long, and his impatience admitting of no delay, he resolved to follow the example of the old prophets—to go forth himself into the universe and preach his own doctrine.

[14]

CHAPTER II.

When Frantz Mathéus had formed the generous resolve of illuminating the world with his own light, a strange and undefinable calm entered into the depths of his soul. It was the eve of St. Boniface, towards six o’clock in the evening; a splendid sun lit the valley of Graufthal, and relieved the motionless branches of the tall firs against the clear sky.

The good man was seated in the old arm-chair of his forefathers, near the small casement, his eyes wandering over the silent little town stretched at the foot of the misty mountains.

Peasants were mowing grass on the skirt of the forest; women, old Martha herself amongst them, armed with rakes, were turning the hay and singing old country airs.

The Zinsel murmured softly in its pebbly bed; a low hum filled the air; long files of ducks were taking their way up the stream, and every now and then raised their nasal cry; fowls were sleeping under the shadow of walls, on the shafts of carts and implements of labour; chubby children were romping and amusing themselves on the thresholds of cottages; and watchdogs, their muzzles between their paws, gave themselves up to the overpowering heat of the day.

This calm scene insensibly touched the heart of[15] Mathéus; silent tears stole down his venerable cheeks; he took his already grey head between his hands, and, with his elbows on the window-ledge, wept like a child.

A crowd of tender recollections rose to his mind. That rustic dwelling, the abode of his father—this little garden, the trees of which he had cultivated, every plant in which he had sown—this old oak furniture, embrowned by time—all reminded him of his peaceful happiness, his habits, his friends, his infancy; and it almost seemed as if each of those inanimate objects appealed to him in touching accents not to desert them—reproached him for his ingratitude, and commiserated him beforehand on his loneliness in the world. And the heart of Frantz Mathéus echoed all these voices, and at every recollection fresh tears streamed more abundantly from his eyes.

Then, when he thought of the poor little town of which he was in some sort the only providence; when, through his tears, he looked at each of the little doors at which he had so often stopped to speak words of consolation, to distribute help, and to give ease to human sufferings; when he remembered all the hands that had pressed his, all the looks of affection and love that had blessed him—then he felt the weight of his resolution almost more than he could bear, and dared not think of the moment of his departure.

“What will Christian Schmidt say,” he thought, “whose wife I cured of a cruel malady, and who does not know how sufficiently to show his gratitude to me? What will Jacob Zimmer say, whom I saved from ruin, when he had not a farthing left to rebuild his barn? What will old Martha say, who has taken care of me[16] with a mother’s tenderness, who brought me my coffee and cream every morning, who mended my breeches and stockings, and who would never go to bed till she had covered me up and pulled my cotton nightcap down to my ears? Poor Martha!—poor, poor, good old Martha! Only yesterday she was knitting me warm under-stockings, and putting away the dozen new shirts she had spun for me with her own hands! And what will Georges Brenner say, on hearing that his wood will be burnt by somebody else? He’ll be very angry; he’s a man of the canine race, who will not listen to reason, and will not let me go.”

Such were the reflections of Frantz Mathéus; and if his resolution had not been firm, indestructible, so many obstacles would have overthrown his courage.

But as the sun went down towards the Falberg, and the coolness of night spread itself over the bottom of the valley, he felt calmness and serenity revive within his soul; his eyes rose lovingly towards heaven, the last rays of twilight illuminating his inspired brow; he might have been thought to be praying silently. Frantz Mathéus was thinking of the incalculable consequences of his system for the happiness of future men, and nothing but Martha’s arrival could interrupt the flow of his sublime meditations.

He heard his old servant go into the kitchen, put away her rake behind the door, and begin to take down plates and dishes preparatory to supper.

These sounds, familiar to his ear; Martha’s tread, which he would have recognised among a thousand; the hum of the little town, the song of the men and women haymakers returning merrily home, the small windows in which lights were appearing one by one—all this[17] once more affected the good man; he dared not stir from his seat; with joined hands and head bent down, he listened to these intermingled sounds. “Listen to these beloved sounds,” he said to himself, “for perhaps you may never hear them again!—never!”

Suddenly Martha opened the room-door. She could not see her master, and called out—

“Are you there, Doctor?”

“Yes, Martha, I am here,” answered Mathéus, in a trembling voice.

“Bless us! why do you sit in the dark like that? I’ll run and get a light.”

“There is no need. I would rather speak to you so. I would rather tell you—— Come—come here and listen to me.”

Mathéus could not articulate another word; his heart beat violently, and he thought: “If I were to see her face when I tell her what I must tell her—it would be more than I could bear.”

Martha felt by the Doctor’s tone of voice that she was going to hear distressing news, and her knees bent under her.

“What is the matter with you, Doctor?” she said; “your voice trembles!”

“It is nothing—it is nothing, my good, my dear Martha!—it is nothing. Sit down—here, near me; I have something to tell you——”

But again the words died upon his lips.

After a few moments’ silence, he went on—

“It will distress you, but it must be done.”

The old servant in great anxiety hurried away to fetch the lamp; when she returned she saw Mathéus looking as pale as death.

[18]

“You are ill, Doctor,” she cried; “you are in pain, I am sure!”

But the illustrious Doctor had had time to collect his thoughts. A luminous idea flashed upon his mind—

“If I can succeed in convincing Martha, all will go well, and it will clearly prove besides that entire humanity will be unable to resist the eloquence of Frantz Mathéus.” Full of this conviction, he rose.

“Martha,” he said, “look me full in the face.”

“I’m looking at you, Doctor,” replied the bewildered old servant.

“Well, you see before you Frantz Mathéus, Doctor of Medicine of the Faculty of Strasbourg, Corresponding Member of the Surgical Institute of Prague and of the Royal Society of Sciences of Gœttingen, Veterinary Councillor of the Stud of Wurtzbourg, and formerly, by a truly frightful concourse of circumstances, Surgeon-Major to the band of Schinderhannes.”

Here the Doctor paused, to allow Martha time to appreciate the full magnificence of these titles. He then went on—

“Frantz Mathéus, sole inventor of the famous psychologico-anthropo-zoological doctrine, which has shaken the world, astounded ignorance, exasperated envy, and struck the universe with admiration! Frantz Mathéus, to whom have been entrusted the destinies of humanity and of cosmological philosophy, founded on the three kingdoms of nature—vegetable, animal, and human! Frantz Mathéus, who for fifteen years has languished in shameful ease, and whose indignant conscience every day reproaches him with having abandoned to the hazard of systems, to the sophisms of schools, and to[19] the disastrous influence of prejudice, the future of humankind!”

Martha trembled in every limb; never had she seen her master in such a state of enthusiasm.

The illustrious philosopher, on his side, marked with satisfaction his servant’s bewilderment. He went on with redoubled eloquence—

“How long, Mathéus, will you take upon yourself this frightful responsibility? How long will you forget the sublime mission imposed on you by genius? Do you not hear the voices calling you? Do you not know that, to mount the ladder of being, one must suffer, and that to suffer is to merit? Ignorance and sophistry raise themselves in vain against you? March—march! Frantz Mathéus! Sow on your way the beneficent germs of anthropo-zoology, and your glory, immortal as truth, shall grow from age to age, sheltering beneath its evergreen foliage the future generations! It is for this purpose, Martha, that you must pack up my valise this evening; tell Nickel, the cobbler, to mend Bruno’s saddle; give a double feed of oats to the poor beast; and I shall set off to-morrow before daybreak, to preach my doctrine to the universe.”

At this conclusion Martha was very nearly tumbling backwards; she thought her master had gone out of his senses.

“What, Doctor!” she stammered; “you want to leave us—to abandon us? Oh, no! it’s impossible! You—so good—who have none but friends in the place! You can’t think of such a thing!”

“It must be so,” replied Mathéus stoically—“it must be so; it is my duty.”

Martha said no more, and appeared to resign herself.[20] As usual, she laid the cloth and served up the Doctor’s supper. That day it was a fowl with rice, and filberts for dessert; Mathéus—of the family of the nibblers—was very fond of nuts. His servant redoubled her usual attentions; she herself carved the fowl, and assisted him to the most delicate morsels; she refilled his glass to the brim, and looked at him with a melancholy eye, as if in pity.

When the meal was finished, she conducted Mathéus into his little bedroom, turned the bedclothes down herself, and satisfied herself that his cotton nightcap was under the pillow.